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BROKEN NesT– Episode 3
By Tiana
I don't remember exactly when the thoughts started, but I know I was still a child when I first began fantasizing about killing my father. It wasn't just fleeting anger. I would lay awake at night, clutching a pillow to my chest, whispering desperate prayers that he wouldn't come home. When those didn't work, darker thoughts crept in.
I once thought of slipping rat poison into his food—just enough to make it look like fate had finally taken pity on us. I even took the trouble to steal a sachet from a neighbor's house where it was kept carelessly in the kitchen. But every time I was about to mix it into his soup, something—fear, guilt, maybe my mother's ghost—would freeze me mid-action.
I also thought about stabbing him with a needle—small and sharp enough to pierce his veins quietly while he snored in his drunken slumber. But I was always afraid. What if I was caught? What if someone figured it out and I was sent away forever? Even at a young age, I knew the justice system wouldn't listen to a girl like me.
So, I let go of those thoughts—but not the anger. That remained.
We struggled our way through primary school, barely managing to graduate. We had no money, no guidance, and absolutely no help. The only available option was the rundown government secondary school in our area—the kind of place where the ceilings leaked, windows were shattered, and classes were overcrowded with students who cared more about fighting than learning.
But despite everything, there was one small light that flickered through the darkness.
Her name was Ada. She was quiet, her uniform threadbare, her feet covered in cracked sandals that barely held together with safety pins. But Ada had something rare—brains and heart. She saw something in me and became the sister I never had. We read together, studied under candlelight, and pushed each other forward. For the first time, I wasn't alone.
We began winning quiz competitions. The school, previously mocked for producing delinquents, finally had something to be proud of. We brought home trophies, earned praise—but nothing more. No scholarships, no gifts, not even a thank-you card. Just a pat on the back and a reminder to return to class.
My brother, Sam, and I continued hustling through it all. Menial jobs filled our days while our father's life spiraled out of control. From gambling dens to beer parlors, he wandered through life like a wounded animal—bruised, drunk, broke, and still as violent as ever.
He came home reeking of alcohol, debts trailing behind him like shadows, fists clenched and ready for war. But as I got older, I stopped hiding. The fear that once bound me began to rot into defiance. I stood up to him, even when it meant getting slapped, punched, or thrown to the ground. I didn't care. I was tired of running.
Then came WAEC—the final secondary school exams that could've been my ticket out. But there was no money. I went to the principal, the same man who always picked me to represent the school, and begged for help.
He looked at me coldly and said, "This is a school, not a charity home. We cannot help everyone."
That was the day I dropped out.
I started working in a local restaurant that paid me fifteen thousand naira a month. It was barely enough to live on, but I used it to support Sam's education and set aside what little I could. Sam, ever the survivor, worked small jobs too—cleaning, errands, anything legal to make a few extra coins.
Our father had all but disappeared by then. Sometimes, he'd be gone for weeks. Other times, months. We stopped waiting for him.
Eventually, we both finished secondary school and moved into different jobs. We lived in cramped quarters provided by our employers—windowless rooms, shared toilets, broken furniture. But we endured.
Still, something inside me burned.
I wanted to go to the university. Not just for knowledge, but for revenge. I wanted to rise above the dirt I was born in and prove to the world—and my parents—that I didn't need them to succeed.
So I worked. For three long, grueling years. I saved, sacrificed, and ignored my own needs. But the traumas I buried wouldn't stay quiet. They came back to me in the form of nightmares.
Boy's death, the constant beatings, my father's demonic face looming over me—I would wake up sweating, heart pounding, gasping for air. Sometimes, I'd scream.
But Sam was different. He let go of the past. He moved forward with an ease I envied. He smiled more. He forgave. I couldn't. I didn't want to.
Eventually, I gained admission to the university. I stayed in the hostel and picked up a part-time job in a hotel to cover my needs. I was a beautiful young woman by then—tall, curvy, with eyes that could pierce through souls and a face that refused to be ignored. Men stared. They always stared.
But I wasn't naive. I knew the danger behind their stares. I had already learned the hard way.
The man who took my virginity posed as a lesson teacher. He was charming, soft-spoken, and kind—until the day he cornered me and did what he wanted, despite my cries. That moment shattered something in me.
I began to change.
I became aggressive. Cold. Angry. My roommates feared me. People whispered behind my back, calling me a beast, a lioness, a girl who looked too much like her father.
They were right. I hated it.
One day, a guy in a sleek black car kept following me. He rolled down his window and said something stupid like, "Hey beautiful, can we talk?"
I didn't even flinch. I turned to him and said coldly, "If you want to die, keep following me."
He laughed, thinking I was joking. But I wasn't.
That night, I thought hard. Maybe men wouldn't leave me alone if I kept avoiding them. Maybe it was time I used them before they used me.
So, I let him in. I made him my boyfriend. I played the role perfectly—but not for love. I wanted payback.
He would take me shopping. I picked what I needed, then doubled it. I emptied his wallet and smiled as he handed me his card.
In his car, he'd lean in for a kiss. I'd push him back. "I'm not here to satisfy you," I'd say, my eyes sharp. "You're here to satisfy me."
He thought I was playing hard to get. He didn't realize I was never going to give him anything.
But pride comes before a fall.
He once asked me to accompany him to a party. I agreed—on the condition that he bought me a new dress, shoes, and an expensive wig. He agreed, smiling like a fool.
That night was a nightmare. He and his friends got me drunk. I tried to fight back. I tried to scream. But they were stronger. I was outnumbered.
They violated me. All of them.
The next morning, I woke up bruised, torn, and empty. He smiled and told me I was beautiful. I wanted to claw his eyes out.
I swore he'd pay. This time, I wouldn't hesitate.
I bought the poison. I planned everything. He was going to die, and I wouldn't flinch.
But as I got home that night, ready to carry out my plan, my phone rang.
"Your father is in the hospital," the voice said. "He's dying. Critical condition."
I froze. I stared at the phone like it had spoken a foreign language.
And then I said aloud, "Who cares if he dies?"
Because I really didn't.
To be continued…
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